Wandering Child
by RedCynic
Summary: Murder, betrayal, passion, and horror- all part of life at the Opera.
1. The Secret of the Mirror

Wandering Child

Chapter One:

The Secret of the Mirror

_How I would like your breath on me,_

_your frail body_

_and coming to your aid in every unsteady step and _

_hugging you with passion._

_If your kisses were true_

_born from a pure feeling_

_I would give you everything, everything you want_

_but not freedom, I'm not giving it to you._

_I know you can give me paradise_

_but I was born free_

_what a Bitter Love of yours, that caught you in a vice_

_and has no mercy of you._

* * *

Christine laughed—a soft, tinkling sound like wind chimes stirring in a breeze—and blushed apple-blossom pink. Raoul sighed contently and thought_, this is it. This is happiness._ And he wished with all his heart that he could fold this moment up and put it in a box somewhere, so he could go back and relive it time and time again. Christine flashed him an indulgent smile as she politely ignored the tea he'd served her and plucked a lemon wedge from the plate, taking her time to pull out the seeds before squeezing the juice into a glass of cool water. Raoul didn't mind; he loved watching her little mannerisms, learning her habits. She was a fascinating creature to him.

"So, is she really as bad as people say?" Raoul inquired, taking note of the way Christine's mouth quirked into a subtle smirk that vanished just as quickly as it came. Of course, Carlotta was as wretched as he'd heard, but the Christine he knew would never say anything untoward about anyone.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Christine said suddenly, leaning over. "She's positively vile," she whispered harshly. Well, he hadn't been expecting that, but he didn't have time to contemplate this newest development. It seemed that Christine—along with the other performers at the Opera house—had _plenty_ to say about their number one soprano and suddenly Raoul felt completely overwhelmed.

Apparently, Carlotta was just impossible to get along with. She was constantly snatching songs—notably solos—from the other performers. She harangued the maestro, screamed at the stage crew, and bullied the attendants. The costumes were never the right fit, the songs were never written properly, the chorus girls were never good enough, the rehearsals were too long,_ even though she never shows up on time—if at all!_ Oh and the pay was too low. When she didn't get her way she would throw horrible tantrums—screaming and cursing, throwing anything she could get her hands on at anyone unfortunate enough to be in her way, and crying that the world was dead set against her and why should someone who works so hard suffer such indignities and disgrace. Christine threw her hands to the heavens and imitated Carlotta's accent, which when Carlotta spoke, sounded imitated as well. Raoul laughed.

"You know, she thinks you and I are engaged in some sort of love affair," Raoul said, smirking, remembering Carlotta—her face layered in makeup, her nails done in garish rouge—fuming and waving those red talons at his face. "She kept saying that I'm the one who keeps writing the mangers to get you the leading role in _Il Muto_." At the time, he'd been too offended to laugh, but now that he looked back on it, the whole exaggerated ordeal seemed very hilarious.

"You, the Opera Ghost?" Christine said, and something about the way she said it sent a chill through him, silencing him completely. Christine, however, gave an almost bitter chuckle and said, "That's too rich."

"Are you upset, Christine?"

"Not exactly. Annoyed, really." Christine plucked a pastry from the plate and ran her finger over the top, catching just a bit of sugar on her finger and bringing it to her lips, savoring it slowly, letting it dissolve on her tongue. "I'm not surprised to hear her say such things. Her attendants have said that that's how she was able to get into the spotlight. Oh, she can sing, she's talented, and there's no denying that she has a certain flair for this business, but on her own she would never have reached the heights that she has. Besides," Christine added, taking in another sweep of sugar. "She hasn't been keeping up with her training. She eats and drinks whatever she wants with no regard for how it affects her and all of that screaming has done some damage as well. Her voice is beginning to fail; it's only a matter of time."

"I didn't think she sounded so bad," he said, not taking the time to think about it before it left his lips. The look Christine gave him made him instantly regret that. It wasn't anger or indignation—but rather a more humiliating mixture of compassionate understanding. It was as look that said, _of course you wouldn't understand, you just don't know any better,_ which seemed much worse. And suddenly, Raoul felt as if the table had suddenly grown much longer and Christine now sat very far away… miles away… sipping her water and wondering to herself what she ever thought she saw in such a simple man who couldn't tell the difference between a woman who could belt out a melody and a true singer who could sway your very soul with her voice. One who could make angels weep…

"I should probably be going," Christine said, unknowingly playing into Raoul's worst thoughts.

"Must you leave so suddenly?" he asked before he could help himself. Christine gave him a strange look as if he'd missed something important.

"I told you that I had an unbreakable engagement tonight."

"You mentioned a lesson," Raoul said casually, carefully folding his napkin and placing it beside his plate. He'd ordered the finest assortment of pastries and chocolates only to discover that Christine no longer cared for any sweets of any kind—or more precisely, that she was not _allowed_ to care for them any longer. All of this, the tea included, was due to the strict instructions of her mysterious tutor. All of this was in the name of preserving and taking proper care of her voice.

Of course Raoul understood the sentiment. When something was truly precious to you, you did everything in your power to keep it safe. Raoul watched as Christine took the time to finish her water, her eyes closed, demure. There was something very off about that tutor of hers. After her glorious triumph during _Hannibal_, she'd disappeared right after they'd been reunited. She had mentioned something about her teacher's strictness, but Raoul had brushed away her protests and insisted she come out with him to celebrate. Then she just disappeared. He looked up and saw Christine gently dabbing her lips with her napkin, little drops of water clinging to her lips like dew before she blotted them away. Raoul wanted to reach over and kiss those lips—he wanted to pull Christine into his arms and make her swear that she would never leave his side again. It was shocking to Raoul to say the least. This was Christine—his Little Lotte. But the protested sounded flat and pathetic even in his mind and he quickly realized two very important things: one, his feelings for Christine were decidedly no longer platonic and two, he didn't trust this tutor of hers one bit.

"You could always skip a lesson," he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible while Christine stared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. Well, you couldn't blame a man for trying. "One night of good company will surely be excused."

"Raoul, you know I treasure spending time with you, surely you know that." And he did, but he wasn't in the mood to admit it and make her feel better. There was a long list of good things people could say about Raoul, but even so, he was still a bit childish and hated to share. "However, as I'm sure I've said before, my tutor is a very _stringent_ perfectionist who demands nothing less than my absolute devotion."

"To him or your art?" Oh, God, did he say that out loud? Christine narrowed her eyes at him. Damn. Yes, it appeared he had, but he stamped down on his shame and cocked his head at her, defiant and demanding. He wanted answers.

"I don't feel the need to dignify that with a response." Her voice even, but sharp like a razor that sliced through the skin before the nerves could even register the pain.

"The night I saw you after the opening gala, I went to your room and arranged to take to out to dinner—" Raoul noticed with an unexpected jolt of dread that Christine looked apprehensive. She knew exactly what he was talking about—she knew exactly what he was going to say… what he was going to ask her. "—when I arrived to pick you up, your door was locked and there was a man's voice coming from inside your dressing room—" Raoul was starting to feel unreasonably angrier and angrier as he went on. It was her face—she knew something—she was hiding something! "—then when I finally broke through, you were gone. You'd disappeared like smoke into thin air and now you're back as though nothing happened." Christine looked simultaneously horrified and defiant, almost as though she was daring him to continue, to push her into a corner and force her to confess everything she was holding back. "What really happened that night?"

Christine regarded him silently. Perhaps she was waiting to see if he really wanted to know the answer, but the look in his eyes was clear enough. After a moment's pause, she sighed and looked mournfully at the clock behind Raoul's head. Now it wouldn't matter if she leapt over the balcony and sprinted as fast as she could—she was going to be late. Christine had never missed a lesson and never _ever_ been late. She had no idea how _he _was going to handle this…

"Raoul," she began carefully, keeping her voice steady and clear. "You know I care for you—you're a wonderful friend and I know you're only acting this way out of brotherly love…" and Christine didn't notice how Raoul flinched at that. "However, what happened that night has absolutely nothing to do with you. Certainly, nothing _untoward_ happened as you so tactfully suggested, but please understand that my private affairs are not open for discussion." Christine tossed her napkin beside her plate. "Good night, Raoul and thank you for your company." There was no sarcasm in her voice, but nor was there any pause. So, with a slight bow of the head she turned and walked towards the door. Raoul didn't hesitate as he bolted for the table and seized her hand.

"Christine—I'm so sorry—please don't be angry at me." Oh, if his older brother could see him now, clinging to the hand of yesterday's chorus girl and begging her forgiveness. He could practically hear the laughter in his head and see the sneer on his face, but all of this was dispelled the moment Christine turned and pulled him into a warm embrace. Raoul lost himself in the sweet sensation of her arms wrapped around his neck and her breasts pressed carelessly against his chest. In her head, Christine could hear the clocking _tick, tick, ticking_ away and the more it ticked the worse she felt, but she couldn't just pull away now. Raoul sounded so desperate, so vulnerable at that moment—she couldn't just abandon him.

But oh, she was going to be so late!

"Raoul," she said, hoping that the anxiousness in her voice would pass for concern. "Of course, I'm not angry with you."

"You were," Raoul said softly, letting his hands settle over her back and breathing in the delightful scent of her hair, trying to memorize it. "But I understand." And he didn't, but it seemed to be what she wanted to hear so he said it anyway. Apparently, it worked because she held him tighter and he noticed with a surge of joy that the top of her head fit perfectly right under his chin. He smiled and pulled away just far enough to look into her eyes. This was a little trick he'd seen his older brother perform countless times before. Women seemed to recognize this little movement as something significant and if the light in Christine's eyes was anything to go by, she was the same. "Don't leave me," he said, stroking her cheek and marveling at the way her eyes fluttered shut. "Just stay with me," he whispered, leaning down. Christine trembled. Oh, if she could. She could just let it all go… _leave all thoughts of the world you knew before._

"Raoul," she breathed, his name on her lips making his nerves sing and in that moment she could have asked for his very heart and he would have plucked it from his chest to give it to her. "I can't."

And time seemed to go much faster at that moment. One second she was standing in his arms, trembling with an emotion that Raoul had thought was desire only to suddenly evaporate before his eyes. She'd mumbled some sort of apology that he didn't quite hear, and he must have mumbled something back because she'd smiled kindly at him before she turned and left. It all happened so fast—like a parlor trick. Now you see her—_swish_—now you don't. He could just make out the faint clicking of her heals against the polished marble stairs. Then there was silence and Raoul was alone.

* * *

By the time Christine reached the Opera House, she was completely out of breath and her hair, which had been so neatly arranged in ribbons for Raoul, now hung in chaotic tendrils over her shoulders. But she didn't care what she looked like. She rushed through the side entrance and took the most direct path she could to her dressing room. When she reached the door, she grasped the handle and wrenched it open, sweeping inside and slamming the door behind her. Her chest felt like it was about the burst from lack of air and if she knew her tutor as well as she did, she knew he was going to be even more furious with her for her careless treatment of her body. Still, she took a moment to catch her breath and mentally prepare herself for him. It was a small blessing that Raoul had chosen a place just around the corner from the Opera House, but even though she'd ran as fast as she could, she was still nearly a quarter hour late. And that was simply unacceptable.

Still breathless, Christine made her way over to her vanity and glanced askance at the tall mirror that stood on the opposite wall. She could see her reflection staring back at her and the back of her head from the mirror on her vanity. The two reflections seemed to go on and on like a strange hallway of Christine's looking over her shoulder. She lowered her gaze and tried to calm her fraying nerves. He would be angry, yes he would be furious—but he would show up. _Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me, to serve me, to sing for my music… my music…_ Oh, God why was his voice always in her head. She couldn't sleep or dream or think without that voice making her drunk, making her think things she was certainly better off not thinking. Oh, but where was he? Why didn't he make his presence known? A small part of her wondered if this was not a good thing, but she silenced that thought as soon as it formed. If this was a mistake, she didn't care. If this was damnation, she'd welcome it even though she was afraid, oh so very afraid, she wanted this. He was like a mystic alchemist who could reduce her to mere particles and reform her into something beautiful and glorious. When she was with him, learning from him, she was happy. Under his guidance, she bloomed and her voice carried a passion that frightened her.

"Angel, please come to me," she said, rising and walking towards her mirror, seeing only herself on the other side. She placed her hand on the cool glass. It reminded her of him. His cold fingers, weaving through her frothy curls, sending shivers down her spine and making her forget the warmth of any other hands. "Please, _mon ange_, forgive me. Don't abandon me." She waited, her ears trained for any sign—a whisper, a sigh—anything from him. But there was only silence. The Christine in the mirror began to blur and the walls behind her wobbled and waved. She was crying. Instantly, her hand leapt to her eyes, whipping the tears away as she mentally cursed herself for being so feeble. He wasn't there, and he wasn't coming—but perhaps she could come to him. She glanced over the mirror, stepping around and gliding her fingers up the side, trying to find a latch or something that would give her a clue as to how to open it. She knew there had to be some sort of trick to it. He had made it look so effortless when he came for her that night. Surely she could figure it out.

"That's not how you open it, but keep going, this is quite amusing."

Christine jumped and turned to see her tutor, the Phantom of the Opera standing in a darkened corner that he most definitely had not been in when she first arrived.

"How did you—?"

The Phantom laughed softly and shook his head.

"Now, now, a magician never reveals his tricks. Otherwise, there's no magic." He gave her a half-smile that was obscured by the white mask that covered half his face. Christine was grateful that he decided to wear it. She'd seen the true face under that mask, and quite honestly, it was not a sight she wanted to see again. She waited for him to come out into the light, but he seemed very content to stay where he was.

"I thought you'd left already," she said, her eyes inevitable drawn to the stark white mask.

"If I were in your position, this is the part where I would beg for forgiveness for my _un_forgivable tardiness and properly explain myself. Now."

His voice left no room for doubt. He was furious, and at that moment, the Christine who had firmly put Raoul in his place for asking about her personal affairs was nowhere to be found. This was different. This was _him_ and that changed things. Telling him to mind his own business was simply not an option.

"I was detained by a personal matter," she said, trying to keep everything as short and vague as possible.

"You will kindly elaborate."

She should have known better.

"I was visiting an old friend. We were talking and time simply got away from me."

"He must be a very special friend to make you forget your priorities," he sneered. Christine didn't bother asking how he knew that her friend happened to be male. Along with countless other unexplainable things about her masked teacher, she just accepted that he knew certain things and didn't question it.

"We were discussing the apparent confusion about my role in _Il Muto_."

"There is no confusion. You're playing the countess."

"As far as my knowledge, I'm still playing the part of the pageboy," Christine said carefully. The conversation was getting a bit surreal. Here she was in her dressing room, speaking to the infamous Opera Ghost, the very man who terrorized the authorities of the Opera House and whose name make the ballet rats shiver with fright. Here they were discussing a letter he'd written, which she certainly had never asked him to write, and it was as if all of this were some kind of play. It would be comedic if it weren't so violent, and the violence was real. Very, very real.

"That's very interesting to hear. It will be even more interesting if you're still playing the pageboy opening night," he said cryptically.

"What do you mean?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Well, it all comes down to what our dear mangers decide, but let's just say that I've made certain arrangements just in case they don't comply with what's in the best interests for the opera. Don't worry, my angel," he said gently, reading the worry in Christine's face. "Either way, you'll be safe from harm."

"I'm not worried about myself," she said suddenly, finding her voice again. The Phantom regarded her for a moment and slowly walked towards her, his eyes keeping her pinned and frozen where she stood. It had never been his intention to intimidate her as he did the others, but he couldn't deny that it got the same results his kindness did in much less time.

"You would do well," he said "to remember your place. Right now those lower vermin—those glassy-eyed followers who stretch out their hands and beg for your voice—they worship you. But it's a fickle obsession and the instant you fall from their gaze they'll forget about you. This is the most important part of your career and if you want to succeed—Christine—if you want to sing and be heard you will do exactly as I say." He had meant to say all of this harshly, but found that the longer his spoke, the softer his voice became. He reached for her, his hands drawn to her face, curling his fingers against her check, stroking her jaw, her lips. The world could fall of its axis, everything around him could burn and fall to ash, but he had this moment right now as his beautiful angel endured his touch and did not flinch away.

He was in awe of her beauty and it made him painfully aware of his own ugliness as she stared into his eyes. He'd spent hours forming this pleasing face before the mirror, applying stage makeup and false flesh to hide the deformity that peaked out from the sides of his mask like a grotesque seam. His nose, which in reality seemed to fall away and collapse midway over, now appeared full and normal. The eye of his mask cut sharply across his right eye and covered his entire cheek, or more precisely, his distinct lack of cheek. It was as if God had grown board with his face midway through construction and decided to just stretch skin over bone. And Christine had seen it all. His cunning little Pandora couldn't leave well enough alone and had snatched his mask away. Perhaps it was more ritual than requirement that he disguised himself so thoroughly for her, but she seemed content to fall back into her make-believe world that he couldn't help but indulge her.

"I just don't want anyone getting hurt," she whispered and why, why did her voice have to tremble so? Why did his touch feel so extraordinary? Why did she constantly yearn for something she feared?

"Pain and sacrifice are all part of this game, and it's a game you must play, my dearest, if you wish to gain the rewards that follow." His hand found its way into her curls and carefully pulled away the ribbons she'd used earlier, allowing her hair to flow freely over her shoulders, down her back. Christine's hand inadvertently went to his face, but recoiled automatically, shoving her away and drifting back into his darkened corner.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, her mind still reeling. "I wasn't going to—I mean I just wanted to—" Oh, God, she didn't know what she meant anymore. She drove her fingers into her hair and tried to slow her thoughts down. This was all too strange—too fast—and definitely too confusing for her.

"Of course you wouldn't," said the Phantom, not quite edging the bitterness from his voice. "'You have your way. I have my way. As for the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.'"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, clearly more confused now than before and a bit frustrated by his obscurity. She was only what other people made her, like a clay doll still moist and pliable for anyone to pick up and reshape. She was covered in fingerprints. What did she know of 'her way'? For once, she just wanted a straight answer.

"Do I frighten you, child?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said, feeling very confused and cornered.

"Just answer the question—do I frighten you?"

"Yes," she answered suddenly, barely aware that she had said anything at all. She jerked her hands and covered her mouth, but it was too late. Yes, she was frightened of him. She feared the way he found most people disposable and useless. She feared the way he lavished his affection on her and demanded her unconditional devotion in return. She feared the madness that occasionally obscured his eyes—the way he looked at her sometimes as though he could devour her raw like some sacrificial virgin. _My power over you grows stronger yet_. And yes she feared his face, but most of all, she feared that doll he kept that looked exactly like her. The one in the bride's dress. "I don't want to lose myself," she whispered, barely enough to hear herself, but she knew he had heard. Sometimes, she wondered if he could read her mind.

"Would you like to know how to open the mirror?" the Phantom asked suddenly. Christine wondered if he ever remained on a subject for more than an instant, but nevertheless, she nodded. "Then let's make an arrangement. I'll show you how to open the passageway but in return, I will never come here again. Do you understand, Christine? If you want to see me, you will have to come to me." Christine could only make out the white mask from the darkness of the corner where the light from the gas lamps just didn't quite reach. What he was offering her was freedom, complete independence. But within that, he was also forcing her hand. As much as she feared him, she needed him. _Your spirit and my voice in one combined. My spirit and your voice in one combined._ She was him—he was her, and maybe it was all just madness. Maybe she was still the fragile little girl always chasing after the dust of her father, always hearing angels singing inside her head, always looking for answers in the dark, seeing things that weren't really there.

"Show me."

It was too dark to see him smile, but she knew he was.

"Very well," he said, emerging once more and gesturing to the mirror with an outstretched hand. She turned and stood before it with him coming behind her. A thrill of anticipation shot through her when he took her hands and held them up to the frame. "The trick," he said, his breath warm and teasing against her ear. She shivered involuntarily and blushed while he continued. "is to _push_." And with that said, he pressed her hands against the frame and pushed against it until a faint but distinct _click_ sounded. Christine's face broke into a wide grin as she stood back and watched the mirror swing forward revealing the dark hallway within. She grabbed the frame and pulled it all the way over, completely opening the secret passageway. A cold air swept into the room and the darkness seemed to pull her forward. She took a tentative step, wanting to explore, feeling as though this was her hallway now as much as his.

"And always remember that when you look into the abyss, the abyss looks right back into you."

She froze, uncertainty creeping back into her making her hesitate. A hundred new questions swirled in her head and the man holding most of the answers was standing right behind her toying with her head. Her Angel of Music, the Opera Ghost… the nameless man. That bothered her. Of everything she didn't know about him, the fact that she didn't even know his name seemed almost unforgivable. Deformed and twisted as he was, he was still a man after all, and all men had names. Perhaps if she knew his name, the Phantom would disappear and the man would be someone she could trust. How could something so basic and yet so important just slip her mind? Well she would find out right now.

"Angel," she said, turning. "What is your…"

But there was no one there. She whirled back around but the passageway was just as dark and just as empty as it was before. Grabbing the ornate silver frame of the mirror, she pushed it back into place until she heard the _click_ and stood back. A frightened child stared back at her and she wondered, not for the first time, just how safe she really was.

* * *

Authors Notes:

This is going to be a mixture of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, with a bit of Gaston Leroux and my own personal interpretation of the characters and events. The book has the story set in 1870 and the musical is set about a decade after that. For those that know their history, there's a significant different in those two periods. For one there's the Paris Commune that lasted until mid 1871. Secondly, during the 1880s and so on, cabaret and vaudeville became popular in Montmartre. _La Chat Noir_ opened in 1881 and the famous _Moulin Rouge_ opened about eight years later. My story is set right at the cusp of this shift, a sort of middle ground between the two stories.

During his conversation with Christine, Erik quotes Friedrich Nietzsche, who was alive and writing during this time period. I personally find Nietzsche fascinating and I believe Erik would have liked a few of his ideas as well.

The lyrics at the beginning of the chapter are from the song Amore Amaro (Bitter Love) written by Yoko Kanno.

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, nor am I making any money from this publication.


	2. The True Face of Ambition

Chapter Two:

The True Face of Ambition

_Through the long, winding passages we came to here  
And after this, we have to still go on  
Only time quietly registers all _

_When we grow up, we give up  
Inside the heart  
We find so many mirrors_

_The rapture of meeting you  
is even more excruciating than the pain of seeing you  
Because in my heart, there still lies a hollow stone_

_Born only to exist  
Is there any other meaning to this?  
Then what is the so-called 'language of love'?_

_On the side of the path I see words on a torn poster  
"Love is here, God is in you..." and it broke off here_

_In the depth of the Universe, edge of the soul.._

_The echo that's born in this body struggles to reach you  
Echo that transcend the meaning of words, ripples out_

_The rapture of meeting you  
is even more excruciating than the pain of seeing you  
Because in my heart, there still lies a hollow stone._

* * *

The piano music stopped and Meg raised her head in a silent question. The mute accompanist rapped his knuckles on the side of the piano, signaling the end of his time, shuffled his papers and left without a word. Obviously, there was only so much time a simple piano player could give to a young ballerina with ambition. Meg frowned and continued on without him, ignoring the blisters that rubbed against the stiff canvas of her shoes and the cry of protest from her aching muscles that stretched all the way from her toes to her abdomen.

The shoes she was dancing in were brand new, unforgiving and very uncomfortable. She's seen the other dancers smacking their new shoes against the wooden floors or hitting them against the walls to soften the shoes to their liking. The dancers called this 'breaking them in', but Meg's mother looked upon such acts as barbarism and insisted that her daughter break her shoes in the natural way, through cruel, uncompromising dance. So, that's exactly what she did and every time she stamped down on her bruised toes, or lifted her leg while keeping all her weight on her painfully arched foot, she comforted herself with the knowledge that she was doing things the proper way.

She was suffering for her art.

Oh, but there was a part of her, a weaker side of her that longed to yank the shoes off her feet and club them against the floor until they gave way. Her feet felt like they were nailed into tiny wooden coffins, but even as tears stung her eyes, Meg continued. She felt like a warrior, pressing on in battle, covered in bruises going on and on while her body begged her to stop. But Meg would never stop. Even though there was no music, no audience, no one to appreciate the pains she was going through, she carried on. There was a wall she reached every time she pushed herself this far and if she could only break through, there was a world of numbness and liberation waiting for her on the other side. Like the masochists she knew who claimed their pain transformed into pleasure after a while, so her pain transformed into numbness. And after an excruciating time, she finally broke through and the world around her washed away.

She was Nothing once more and it was the most glorious feeling. To be Nothing. To be Nobody. If anyone had been watching her, they would have noticed as well. Meg's eyes glossed over and a faint smile flitted across her face as she twirled and swayed. Her technique, which moments before had seemed erratic and flimsy due to the pain, was now sharp and precise. She was weightless. Her body seemed to know what to do and had no need for her mind to be in on the process, so she wandered off.

Christine… now there was a subject she could wrap her weary mind around. She felt like a child, spreading down in front of a warm fireplace, feeling the heat flush her skin, letting her feet sway idly behind her as she propped a book before her and began to read. And this book was Christine.

Despite her attempts to remember, Meg could not precisely recall when she first noticed Christine. She could remember the first time she and Christine danced together, two bodies swaying in time to the music, identical painted smiles on their faces and the same bleakness in their eyes. She remembered the first time they bathed together.

Normally the dancers would have to compete with each other to get the best bath water and if they were exceptionally lucky, they'd get the kind that was still warm and only slightly used. Otherwise it was cold water so murky it seemed pointless to even bother. However, Meg's mother had her own tub, and her own water supply and that afforded Meg a great luxury over the other girls. So, after she and Christine had become close, Meg suggested one day after practice that she use her tub instead; however, Christine hadn't expected Meg to strip down and slide into the tub with her. Christine was a little nervous of course, even though Meg had seen her naked countless times before, as was bound to happen during frantic costume changes in the cramped dressing rooms behind the stage. Still, there was something intimate about taking a bath with another girl and Christine just couldn't stop blushing the entire time. Meg found this incredibly endearing and teased her about it mercilessly. There were some girls who preferred the company of other women to men, and Meg delighted in telling Christine all of this while sitting in the tub with her, making a great show of staring at her while she did it, her eyes drinking in the vision of her pale breasts, her slender shoulders, her rosebud nibbles that peaked just over the surface of the water. It made Christine magnificently uncomfortable and Meg grinned when she blushed and looked away shyly. If Meg had wanted to be cruel, she would have leaned forward and gently pried Christine's legs apart, taking one of those plump breasts in her hand and sliding her other hand between her legs. She had no doubt Christine would put up some protest, as all well-taught Christian girls were bound to do, but Meg knew how to stroke, how to used her tongue, how to make girls see stars before their eyes. It was all a game, and one she was very good at playing, but this time she decided not to. Christine was prize, a beautiful doll with honey-colored curls and a please-love-me smile, but it was her eyes that made Meg stop. She had the eyes of someone who'd endured great sorrow. So, Meg teased her, made her blush, but in the end she preserved their friendship. It was something she later realized she had never done before and for a while, Meg was very worried that Christine would find her behavior intolerable.

She needn't have worried, though. Christine was always by her side. Despite Meg's teasing and suggestive conversations, Christine longed to have someone around her own age who would spend time with her and talk with her. Meg had been right in her assumption that Christine had endured some tragedy, something that left her somewhat socially awkward, but eager for affection.

Even so, Meg knew very little of Christine's past, that is to say, she knew nothing that didn't involve the girl's father. Ironically, though she knew next to nothing about Christine's life before her employment at the Opera, Meg knew all about Christine's father, whom it seemed she never tired of talking about. It was a little unsettling really, the way Christine would carry on for hours at a time, reliving each day with her father as if she'd lived it yesterday. Perfect memory, absolutely no variation no matter how many times she went over the same course of events. Some days it seemed as though Meg knew more about some ghost than she did her best friend.

Christine, of course, never caught on that Meg thought she was odd in this regard, nor would Meg ever tell her. Christine was the first person Meg had truly connected with—the first person she viewed as an actual "person" and not some puzzle box to be solved and discarded without care. Meg actually cared for Christine.

And that was probably the reason Christine would over look Meg's odd habits, her fondness of eavesdropping, of peeping through cracks and keyholes and watching other people. Meg turned spying into a game. Everything was a game to her and perhaps Christine was just thankful that she had been let in on it, because it was easier to play along when you knew you were playing at all. When she began receiving lessons from her mysterious tutor, Meg was the first person to find out and, naturally, it was by her usual means. For a while, she kept this knowledge a secret from Christine, bidding her time and seeing how long it would take before Christine would tell her herself, if she ever did. However, Meg made the mistake of mentioning these lessons in passing to her mother and the whole thing blew up in her face. Her mother was furious—more than furious really—livid would have described her better. Meg was grateful that her mother didn't have her cane at the time.

"Do you have no regard for your own life?" her mother had hissed, snatching her daughter's ear in her hand, twisting and digging her nails in hard.

"I was only listening in a little bit—I was hardly in any mortal danger!" Meg insisted, jerking away and clamping her hand over her hear to help with the pain.

"Foolish, ignorant little brat! If you know what's good for you you'll stay away from Christine during these lessons and if I find out you've been doing otherwise, I'll break my cane over your backside." And this was one of those rare times when Meg realized her mother was not exaggerating. Of course, all this did was make her even more interesting in Christine's lessons. Afterward, her mother received a letter from the Opera Ghost, which she absolutely forbid Meg from reading. Then suddenly, even though Christine was still a background performer, her mother moved her into a private dressing room. When she was younger, Meg had snuck into that very dressing room before, just like she had with most of the rooms at the Opera House. But the instant she'd settled down to play, she felt this horrible sensation that she was being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck rose and she could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she meticulously looked through the closets and inspected every nook and cranny of the room. She found no one of course, but left and never played there again.

Now Meg was not what most would call intelligent or bright, but she hand her own brand of knowledge that made her keenly aware of certain things. She'd been watching people all her life and she knew how they worked, what made them tick, the little things they gave away with every gesture and sideways glance. And by that time, she knew Christine like the back of her hand. Something was going on, something was changing about her and it all had everything to do with those special lessens she was receiving. Her mother's strange behavior about it made the entire situation possess her mind so that it was all she thought about for days at a time. Her dancing suffered because of it. The other dancers inquired about her health while secretly hoping she'd caught something fatal or at least crippling that would leave a nice little spot for them to slip into. The little vultures. They'd eat their own if they thought they could get away with it. Meg smiled and brushed off their false concern.

Fate, however, had a wonderful way of teasing her, driving her mad, and then inexplicably letting the answer fall into her lap. It was like some crazy ritual she had to perform, like a dance, a series of moments she had to go through and then she would see her prize waiting for her as if it'd been there all along. It happened the night after Christine's unexpected success during _Hannibal_. She found her after the show, thrilled for her friend's triumph and overcome after hearing her sing so heavenly. _Really you were perfect! I only wished I knew your secret. Who is this new tutor?_ Then, it happened. Christine told her about her lessons and it took every bit of Meg's self-control to act ignorant, as if she hadn't been torturing herself waiting for this very moment. And then it all clicked magically into place.

Christine's Angel of Music was the Opera Ghost.

Oh, it was even better than she expected, and she'd been running wild scenarios through her head for some time now. Perhaps it was a married rich man who had fallen in love with her and longed to help her in any way he could, but couldn't been seen because of the scandal it would bring. Or maybe, it was a lowly stagehand—some nobody who'd had the talent but no luck to make it to the top—and now gave all he could to the beautiful chorus girl who'd stolen his heart. Hell, maybe it was the mute accompanist, who wasn't really mute at all but who'd been faking this whole time due to some unimaginable fancy. Well, no that last one wasn't possible because the jagged scar on the poor man's neck left no doubt that his silence was not a choice, but Meg had been running out of ideas and she always got a little carried away when she was stuck.

But now she knew!

It all made sense!

Her mother's behavior, the letter from the Opera Ghost, Christine's sudden move to _that_ dressing room—all if it pointed to one answer: The Opera Ghost was the one teaching Christine to sing. And why not? Obviously, the girl had a gift and from what she heard, the Phantom of the Opera was the real reason that the opera succeeded as well as it did. Sure, the mangers had ideas, some of them good—most of the not so much, but the Opera Ghost was the one who threatened them into brilliance. They were all being ruled by a madman—a violent one at that who had no qualms about pushing the occasional set coordinator over some railings or making an incompetent ballerina disappear—but by God he got amazing results. Angel, ha! More like demon, but Christine seemed more than willing to be deluded even though Meg suspected that even she knew how crazy it all sounded. _Christine you must have been dreaming. Stories like this don't come true._ But Christine didn't listen and insisted that it was an Angel sent to her by her father. Meg didn't like where this was going. Obviously, the Phantom had caught on to Christine's weakness—her father—and was exploiting it for his own means. _Who is this Angel?_ There was a gleam in Christine's eyes that made her very nervous and Meg realized with a sickening jolt that she'd seen that before on the faces of careless dancers who got swept up in fairy tale romances only to discover too late that their prince charming was nothing more than a man. A simple man with a bit of flesh between his legs that ruled in more completely than any woman or God could ever hope to. This was obsession—blind faith in something that made absolutely no sense. This was love at its worst.

"_He's with me, even now…"_

"_Your hands are cold—!"_

"_All around me…"_

"_Your face, Christine, it's white—!"_

"_It frightens me."_

"_Don't be frightened." _And Meg had no idea what possessed her to say that, but the instant she did, Christine visibly relaxed. Just what had she done? Why had she reassured her when she should have used the opportunity to make Christine see just how careless she was being? But she didn't have time to think before her mother came out from nowhere, as she was very talented at doing, and demanded her presence at practice. She went, her nerves ragged, but lingered just long enough to see he mother give Christine a letter. She heard Christine say the name Raoul before her mother came behind her, grabbed her roughly by the arm, and lead her away.

However, she did not immediately take her to the practice room, but stopped in the hallway instead and gave Meg a firm glare.

"I thought I told you to keep your head down."

"Well, that was before I found out that Christine tutor was the Opera Ghost and you've been helping him get to her." Meg whispered, wanting more than anything to scream, but her own experience reminded her that these walls weren't as thick as people thought they were. "My, God, Mother, he has her believing that he's some sort of Angel of Music sent by her dead father to 'teach her a bit of heaven's music'! Why in God's name would you help him?"

There was no hesitation in her mother's reply.

"He has promised to make you Empress if I comply."

And Meg had to take a step back because of all the excuses her mother could have thrown out, that was certainly not one she'd been expecting. Make her Empress? What? How was that even possible for a ghost to accomplish?

"Mother, you do remember that we're talking about the Phantom of the Opera, right? Just how do you expect him to make me an Empress?"

"My dear, your way of thinking has always been so simple," her mother said, putting her cane before her and resting her hands on the polished top. "This creature we know here as the Opera Ghost has a reach far beyond what you'd expect and riches that you and I can't begin to imagine. He knows things about people, dangerous things that carry a lot of weight and he has several other identities besides this one that have great sway over a lot of important people. Do you really think he spends all his time flitting about the Opera House in a black cape to terrorize us all to his whim?" Her mother raised an eyebrow, and yes, that's exactly what Meg thought but she had no logical argument to say otherwise. Even her mother didn't really know if it were all true, but he'd told her it was and given her no reason to doubt him. All she really knew was that sometimes, little girls went missing and now Meg would never be one of them. Maybe one day, her daughter would be Empress, but for now, knowing she would be safe was payment enough.

"This is all just a game he's playing, Mother. It's all about Christine—he must be obsessed with her—why else would he go through this much trouble?"

"Well, you'd know all about games, wouldn't you?" her mother sneered, a knowing but dark smile stretching over her face. Yes, Meg knew all about games—lots of games, but…

"I love Christine… she's my friend and I won't let anyone or any_thing_ harm her."

"My dear child, haven't you noticed? He doesn't want to harm her—he wants to help her. Look at what he's done so far. Do you think Christine would have a night like tonight if she kept on the path she was going down—do you think you'll ever taste success unless someone interferes on _your_ behalf?" Oh, and didn't that just sting. Meg, playful little brat that she was, also had dreams and aspirations. She danced for hours and hours, until her feet looked like bruised fruit, until they bleed and stained her shoes red. And yes, it was bitterly unfair that some little waif who spread her legs for the right person or happened to be the great niece of so-and-so got to glitter in the spotlight while Meg twirled in the shadows. It was a cutthroat world behind the curtains. Girls paying hungry little boys to ambush their friends and club their legs, pouring powdered glass into their ballet slippers, throwing up in the alley way so that they could leap higher—could glide more gracefully—could dance and feel that addicting glow of the light shining upon their faces—feel the worship of the crowds. Oh, yes, Meg knew all about it. "Keep your head down and keep practicing. This is his Opera now and we all have our part."

And with that she turned and walked down the hall, leading Meg back to the practice room because, even though her daughter wanted nothing more than to simply lie down and let it all sink in, there was no time for that. There was only time for dance.

A sudden bolt of pain in her ankle ripped Meg back into the present and she stopped. White hot coils of pain were wrapping around her ankle and her face was already wet with tears. Damn. She kneeled carefully and brought her legs up for inspection. Her feet were swollen, no surprise there, and the blisters on her heal had broken, leaking blood and fluid all over the back of her new shoes. Well, it was all part of the process so she didn't fixate on it, but the pain in her ankle, now that could be a problem. Pushing herself past her limits was one thing, but there was a line that no one crossed. A dancer who didn't take proper care of her body could cripple herself if she wasn't careful and when Meg went numb that line seemed to blur and disappear.

Well, it appeared she'd been lucky this time. Just as carpenter knows his tools, Meg knew her legs and could tell that she'd suffered no permanent damage. Just a sprain, today at least, but she knew that if she wasn't careful, she'd snap a tendon or fracture a bone. Then she'd be worse than nothing. She'd be worthless.

"Are you okay?"

Meg looked up, surprised to see a young man enter the room, the same man that Christine seemed so close to, Viscount Raoul de Chagny. What on earth was he doing here?

"It's just a sprained ankle," she said sweetly, looking up at him through her inky black bangs.

"Do you need some assistance?"

She didn't but she nodded anyway, eager to know this new creature that made her friend's eyes light up whenever he passed by. He was a graceful man but decently strong, she realized as he leaned over and collected her in his arms. If this had been any other man, Meg would have wrapped her arms around his neck and played up the vulnerable, injured ballerina for him. But this was Christine's Raoul and so she feigned a shyness she'd lost a long time ago and blushed. He seemed to realize that he was making her uncomfortable, so he murmured an apology and asked her where she needed to go. She gave him the directions to her mother's office and he carried her there, tactfully waiting until the halls emptied before hurrying along. She wondered why her friend didn't just run away with this man with his boyish eyes and come-what-may smile. Surely, he would allow her to continue her career and his family could be reasoned with. After all it was the turn of the century; things were changing. Maybe a viscount marrying an opera singer wasn't so unthinkable now? Of course, Meg had no idea how things really went. Perhaps his family was the type who clung to the old ways the way an old man clings to a younger girl's skirts with the sort of desperation that denies everything and demands submission. Maybe change to them was just more proof that their ways were better. Maybe not.

"It's locked," Raoul whispered, shaking the handle and getting nowhere.

"Give me your penknife," she said, not waiting for an invitation before she plunged her hands into his overcoat and pulled it from his pocket. No doubt, he was wondering how she knew it was there in the first place, but he didn't ask so she didn't tell. Slipping the blade between the door and the frame, she pulled it up until she felt the familiar bolt. Raoul watched, fascinated as Meg jiggled the blade a certain way and then smiled as she bypassed the lock. Still cradled in his arms, she reached out her hand and pushed the door open.

"Just set me on the sofa if you would. My mother will be here soon," she said, giving him an angelic smile and slipping the penknife back into his pocket. Raoul didn't know what to say so he just did as she asked, carefully easing her down onto the sofa before giving her an awkward goodbye. Meg waited a moment then called after him.

"Christine's dressing room is on the fourth floor, down the hallway and to the left."

Raoul walked back inside with a puzzled expression.

"How did you—"

"Come now," Meg simpered. She smiled and delighted in the way he blushed and tried to maintain his composure. "She's in her dressing room. Having only been there once before, one can understand how you got turned around in our lovely labyrinth. _Monsieur _Garnier loved his winding corridors, as I'm sure you've discovered."

"Indeed," Raoul muttered, unsure of what exactly to say, trying not to look into those black eyes... eyes that reminded him of a doll's eyes with their glossy eeriness.

"Once more, it's on the fourth floor, down the hallway, and to the left. The door handle and locks have recently been changed so you can't miss it." Meg raised her hand and waved, not bothering to explain the significance of that last statement to someone so foolish enough not to ask. Raoul took this as his cue to leave and bowed again. Meg had to stifle a giggle at his unnecessary formality, but as soon as he left she burst out into a fit of laughter. What a boyish man, so cute, but oh so very aware of certain urges and compulsions that ripped him from his sleep in the middle of the night with a throbbing need that never seemed satisfied. Oh, her darling Christine would have her hands full with that one.

* * *

Either way she looked at it she could only lose.

Christine sighed and began to pace around her dressing room, mindlessly gnawing on her thumb nail as she turned her choices over in her head. Carlotta was furious at her, the managers were giving her strange looks, the other girls were starting to whisper whenever she passed by—everything was getting completely turned around. Before, she had always been Carlotta's default understudy. It was all a formality really, because before _Hannibal_, Carlotta had never missed a performance. The glorious Carlotta miss a chance to shine in front of her ever-worshipful cult?—Unthinkable! Until _that_ night, and now Christine was paying for it dearly. Carlotta had thrown a royal fit and tried to get her thrown out, but Madame Giry spoke on her behalf and the managers didn't know what to do but keep her on for now.

Still, Carlotta had won one battle. Christine was no longer her understudy, and no matter how many times the managers pleaded with her, how many gifts they showered on her, or how many times they praised her with their desperate, gleaming eyes—she would not be swayed. Now, she had her old power back. The new girl she chose as her understudy was some poor hapless child who could sing on key, but had no power in her voice. They'd never hear her past the third row and Carlotta knew it. Once more, the managers knew it and if they didn't want her storming out and leaving them with this meek creature to rely on, they'd better do as she said. The poor boys had not signed up for this when they'd taken over the Opera House but the deal was done, the ink was dry and they were resigned their fate.

Now, not only was Christine not allowed to see the music for the part of the countess, but she was also forbidden to rehearse in the same room as Carlotta. How they were going to work together on stage, Christine had no idea. The only thing she could do was rely on Carlotta's performance. If she did exactly as she was supposed to, they could meet for the first time on opening night and no one in the audience would know any different. Ah, but since when had Carlotta done exactly what was expected of her? She toyed with the crowd, changing her lines on the spot and speaking to them directly as if she were letting them in on some juicy secret. That's why they loved her. To them, Carlotta lived in this fabulous world of elaborate masks, outrageous wigs, and dresses the size of houses. She sang to them, spoke to them, let them join her and for one night—they were all her friends, her lovers, her church. They'll soon be erecting statues in her honor, thought Christine bitterly as she continued pacing. Oh it was all good and well to get the audience involved with the fantasy, but how in God's name where the other performers, Christine included, supposed to act with her when she decided to throw the script out and do as she pleased?

And now, she had the added pressure of the Opera Ghost practically acting as her agent, sending letters, demanding that she be given the lead or else. At first it was the viscount, Raoul and now everyone believed she was bedding the Phantom of the Opera. She most certainly didn't ask for this, but she knew better than to question it. To be blunt, he was right. This was the surest way to advance her career, but oh, it was coming at such a steep price. Didn't anyone earn anything these days through good old fashioned hard work and determination? Was it all just having the right connections—knowing the secret password? And what about that "or else" clause her beloved madman had thoughtfully slipped in there. Even if—and this was a very big if—he didn't outright murder Carlotta, which honestly Christine wouldn't put past him, even if he just made her 'disappear' for a few hours, how was she supposed to go on the stage and sing the role of the countess without ever having once looked at the music?

Her eyes inadvertently drifted to the mirror.

_He_ could probably help her, but did she dare seek him out?

Oh, God, she was thinking in circles. If she opened the mirror and went to him, granting that she could even remember the way through the dark tunnels, she was as good as admitting her dependence on him as well as practically becoming a co-conspirator in whatever scheme he was planning. If she _didn't_ go to him, which was surely the morally right thing to do, she was just going to be moved about like a pawn whether she liked it or not. No one asked her permission, they just did as they pleased. So was it better to be manipulated in ignorance, or to pull on the strings and speak to the puppet master himself? Christine had no idea, but pacing about in her room and trying to reason it all out in her head was getting her nowhere. She had to do something. She didn't want anyone to get hurt, and yet, underneath what she always considered to be her strong moral center, she desperately wanted to get back onto center stage. Oh, but how could she accomplish that without bending to the whims of a madman who fancied himself a ghost some days and an angel others? Just what was she supposed to do? Instantly, she felt a familiar pain fill her heart. Her father… if only her father were still here. He'd help her—tell her what to do. Or he'd take her away from all this madness and let her sing for him, only for him, again. During his last moments, when he was coughing blood all over his hands and growing delirious with fever, he told Christine that her singing made him see heaven.

And Christine believed him.

She believed that her voice was being uplifted by angels and it was the only comfort she could give him. Right before he passed, he told her that since she had shown him the way to heaven, he was going to send the Angel of Music down to her. And Christine believed him. If her father had lived, Christine would probably have grown into the type of everyday person who realized that there was no real Angel of Music, that it was all just a metaphor. Just another fairy tale. But her father died and the only things he left her with were her memories and that promise. Yes, she believed. When the Opera Ghost happened upon her and spoke to her, she'd asked him if he was the angel her father had promised her. He said he was, and she believed him. He played his part well. He wrote songs and same them to her in Latin, words and melodies that made tears streak down her face. He would spend hours listening to her sing, helping her refine her technique, teaching her heaven's music. Faith was what people referred to as blind devotion to the impossible and that described her perfectly.

Then she learned the truth, and for once in her life, Christine wished she could just slip back into blissful ignorance. She preferred her fantasy world where Angels of Music descended from heaven to lonely girls—where people earned their glory—where deformed geniuses were recognized for their brilliance and weren't twisted by the real world's expectations of beauty—where lonely men didn't build underground houses and keep only lifelike dolls for company…

Christine froze. She hated that thing… The doll had been exactly like her down the last detail, and it made her stomach coil when she imagined just how he'd captured her perfectly. What did he do with that doll anyway? In her head she could hear Meg's voice telling her _exactly_ what he did with it. _Probably climbs on top of it every night and moans your name, driving into it over and over and pretending to hear your angelic voice moan back. After all, a man has needs, right Christine? And underneath it all, he is a man. Can't you just see him, Christine? Can you see him approaching her, his mind making her blush and avert her gaze just like you would? Can you see him kissing her unyielding lips, his fingers brushing over that ornate wedding gown he dressed her in, lifting those crisp, white skirts? Oh, Christine, can't you just imagine what it would be like to sneak down there and watch him pull her into his arms and take her, knowing the whole time it's you he sees when he coils his fingers into her hair and spills his seed inside her? _Christine shook her head and wondered, not for the first time, if she was spending a little too much time around the black haired dancer. Still, Meg was her dearest friend and nothing could change the exhilaration Christine felt when Meg smiled her little conspiratorial smile and waved her over. However, lately Christine hadn't been spending as much time with Meg as she used to. Her time was being drained away by both the Phantom and now Raoul as well. Besides, if she told Meg half of what had been going on, she had no doubt her curiosity would get the best of her—she would get that spark in her eyes and there'd be no stopping her. She'd bust down the walls or dig through the floors to find her way in. Give her a week and she'd be sitting in his living room—she'd swim through the lake if she had to and just starting sifting through his personal belongings, dripping wet with that wide grin on her face. No, Meg was better off where she was, and honestly, Christine wished she was right there with her. On the sidelines, watching from afar as Carlotta and the others ran around like circus performers trying to rediscover what was up and what was down.

Well, it was too late for that now.

Now she was right in the middle of it and there was nothing she could do but try not to go under.

She looked up at the mirror and remembered the warning the Phantom had given her about gazing into the abyss. But Christine only saw herself staring back and in that moment, she made up her mind. She walked to the mirror, ran her hands over the frame until she found a suitable position, and she leaned her weight against it until she heard the _click_. Standing back, she let it ease open but not before she saw the door knob to her dressing room twist and the door swing open. Christine panicked and quickly threw herself against the mirror, pushing until it clicked closed, and turning just in time to see Raoul letting himself in.

* * *

Author's Notes:

The lyrics at the beginning of the chapter are _Echo (Hollow Stone)_ by Lily Chou-Chou/Salyu.

Also, this is my first foray into POTO fanfiction so any helpful advice or constructive criticism would be much appreciated.

R.C.


	3. Wherein Lies Continue

Chapter Three:

Wherein Lies Continue

_Yesterday, upon the stair,  
I met a man who wasn't there  
He wasn't there again today  
I wish, I wish he'd go away..._

* * *

Her heart was slamming in her chest as she pressed herself against the mirror while Raoul stepped across the threshold and into her dressing room.

"Christine, I'm so glad you're here," he said, not wasting a moment. "I just wanted to apologize to you for my deplorable behavior the other evening."

He gave her a sheepish grin and Christine explored the irony that he'd barged into her dressing room completely uninvited to ask her forgiveness for another matter entirely. Just what was he playing at? She allowed herself a moment to breathe while her mind scrambled to catch up with the present. Judging from the current state of events, Christine reasoned that her secret regarding the mirror was still safe. Knowing Raoul as well as she did, she knew that if he'd seen it would only be a matter of minutes before he'd figured out enough to push her aside and storm through the entrance. For now it seemed he was still in the dark about what was really going on, but he sensed something was amiss. He was tense, alert, and waiting for his cue. He'd be her knight in shining armor, sword drawn, ready to fight to the death with the heinous Opera Ghost. And knowing her "Angel" as well as she thought she did, she knew he'd welcome her savior with his own brand of justice. A few nightmarish images flashed through her mind—all of them involving Raoul meeting a very gruesome and untimely end. Her dear friend, brave and heroic as he was, had never actually taken another life before. While her "Angel"… well… he had practice. And practice does make perfect.

"Think nothing of it, Raoul," she said dismissively, trying to act as casual as possible as she leaned forward from the mirror and stood with her arms crossed. She knew he could tell that something was bothering her, but she let him think it was him and not the fact that she'd nearly been caught opening a secret passageway that lead to the Phantom's lair. She felt like a child hiding something behind her back while she set her face into the picture of innocence. "But do knock next time you decide to drop by unannounced," she said coolly.

"Oh yes," he said, giving a little shrug. "I supposed my actions were a little rash, but I just couldn't wait."

Christine sighed, but gave him a kindly, indulgent smile. Typical, Raoul, she thought. Even as a child he could never wait for anything. She remembered a time they had fought and in a fit of childish rage, he'd shoved her down and called her ugly. Less than one hour later, after Christine had stopped crying and firmly resolved never to speak to him to again, Raoul came running after her begging for forgiveness. She'd glared at him in return and turned up her nose, but he was adamant. He followed her around the entire day, begging, pleading, and threatening to never leave her side until she changed her mind. When she'd returned home, he stayed outside her window long into the night until her father finally went outside and told him to go home. However, as soon as the sun rose the next day she found Raoul on her door step. She relented, of course, and forgave him that morning; however, if he had just apologized and left her alone, she would have come back to him sooner. But then, he wouldn't be her Raoul, and Christine found that even his most annoying habits had a way of becoming endearing over time.

"Well, I'm free tonight," she said, brightly. Raoul's face lit up and Christine couldn't help but smile back. Normally, her free time was extremely limited due to staging rehearsals, dancing practices, and singing lessons from her "angel", but now that her participation in the latter was entirely up to her, Christine found that her tonight just opened up. "If you still desire my company," she said, teasing.

"I'd be delighted to take you out tonight," Raoul rushed, feeling suddenly exhilarated. "Is there any place in particular you would like to go?"

"Oh, heavens, I barely know this city," and when Raoul gave her a questioning look she continued, "The Opera House has been my entire world for years. I barely have time these days to come home and sleep in my own bed. I've only walked around a bit, and never far from the Opera. Paris itself is still a mystery to me."

"Well, then allow me to give you a proper introduction," he responded, smiling that sly smile of his that made Christine's heart ache in an old, familiar way. "There's a lovely place I know. You won't need to dress too formally, just wear something comfortable," he said, giving her a wink.

Christine's earlier apprehension seemed to dissolve, and she wondered how she could even be having this normal conversation. Was this "normal"? Is this what "other" people did? Somehow the idea of dressing up and going out with an old friend seemed so queer to her. Just how long had she been here? Oh, Christine knew the years, but she wondered what had happened to the outside world while she stayed inside singing and dancing. News trickled in through forgotten newspapers and gossip. So much was changing and Christine felt like a foreigner outside the stone walls of the Opera House. It was intimidating—almost frightening—and at the same time, so exhilarating! Tonight would be a new discovery for her and she had Raoul right beside her to share it all.

"What time should I be expecting you?" she asked, already breathless from excitement.

"Is six o' clock alright for you?"

"It's perfect—absolutely perfect," she beamed.

"Wonderful," said Raoul, delighted at Christine's obvious enthusiasm. "Then I'll meet you in the foyer tonight at six," and feeling brilliantly confident, he reached over and grasped her hands. He wanted to turn them over, kiss her palms, her wrist. He wanted to pull her close, kiss her lips—see what she tasted like—but his courage evaporated as soon as his skin made contact with hers. He knew she wanted him to, or at least, he _thought_ she did. But Raoul was becoming more and more aware that the girl he'd known as Little Lotte had grown in a woman he barely recognized. Oh, but he wanted to—he wanted to know everything about her. Still, he wasn't as brave as Christine gave him credit for, so he settled for lifting her hand to his lips and brushing them over the back of her fingers.

"Till' then," he said softly, mentally reminding himself that he had to actually let go of her hand before he could leave. Ah, details. He sighed too softly for her hear and allowed himself to savor the feeling of her hands in his. If he had been Philippe, he would have handled the moment romantically, giving her fleeting touches that left her wanting more, spinning his words into poetry, promising her the stars—eternity—whatever she desired. All Raoul had was his sincerity and the hope that maybe, just maybe, that was enough. He let her hand go and gave Christine a smile that he hoped conveyed everything he was too afraid to say. _I'm sorry I'm not very romantic. I'm sorry I know nothing about your music, which means everything to you. I'm sorry that sometimes I get hasty and say things I don't mean. I'm sorry that sometimes I'm a man and sometimes I'm a boy. But please, please don't reject me. I'm no artist, but I know beauty and Christine—everything about you is beautiful to me. You're like a nightingale—so rare, so wonderful that I'd love to keep you in a golden cage just for me—always for me. Oh, but I could never do that to you my glorious, Christine, so please, please promise me that you'll never fly away. Please, please Christine. _

"I can't wait." Christine said, lowering her face so close he swore he could feel the heat radiating from her blushing cheeks. Oh God, if she kept this up—! Christine had no idea what she was doing to him, leaning so close, the proximity driving him mad. He felt as though the air between them was going to combust, one thoughtless touch, one spark and they'd go up in flames. Outside his mind, Raoul appeared to be every bit the gentleman he was raised even though inside he was burning. He stepped back, everything Catholic in him screaming at him to run away from this temptation and leave just the way he came.

Conjuring up every image of every stone-faced nun who'd ever looked at him disapprovingly, he gradually reined in his self-control. Damnation, hellfire, brimstone, right… He gave her a slight bow and made his way to the door, turning once just to make sure she was looking before forgetting everything he'd just recalled and flashing her a promising smile that held every decadent thought he had. Oh, yes, he was a lost cause. Still, the flames of Hell didn't seem too important now as he closed the door and walked down the hall. Tonight was going to be perfect.

* * *

There was a glow in the air as Christine went through the preparations for her evening out with Raoul. Meg had procured some perfume for her, something Christine suspected she'd mostly likely swiped from Carlotta's collection. But Meg shushed her and pressed the bottle into her hand, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek and dashing off to practice before her mother came storming after her. Christine looked at the bottle, trying not to feel too guilty as she opened it and dabbed a bit of the violet scented perfume on her neck and the insides of her wrists. Of course, she'd make sure to remind Meg to return it. Her morals only bent so far…

"And Little Lotte thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins, of shoes…?'"

She unlaced the bindings of her dress and let it fall to the floor, her mind reaching back to the memories of the sea, Raoul's kind eyes, his warm hands.

"'Or of riddles, of frocks…?'"

She pulled her evening dress from the closet and slipped it over her head, running her hands over the skirt, smoothing it out while she chased after Raoul's shadow in her head.

"Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins?" She whispered, so deep in her mind now that she was barely aware of the world around her. "Am I fond of dolls or goblins…?"

* * *

Raoul had chosen a simple suit, black with a pale blue shirt and matching waistcoat, something his sisters had commissioned for him after complaining that his current wardrobe was too somber. It wasn't the first time in his life that he was grateful for their interference—not that he'd admit that out loud of course. He'd argued with himself for the better part of an hour on whether or not to wear his top hat and at the last minute he'd decided to risk public humiliation and leave it behind. Honestly, he felt a bit nude without it, but he'd tied his hair back and he seemed decent enough as he gave himself a once over in one of the many mirrors that adored the foyer. Now all he had to do was wait for Christine to come down. He glanced at his pocket watch and noticed with a sigh that he'd arrived nearly fifteen minutes too early. Still, ever since he'd left her earlier that day he'd been painfully aware of every minute that dragged on and on. Six o'clock had seemed so reasonable at the time, but that was before he discovered how sadistic time can be when one wants it to fly by. A few hours seemed to take a few months as he paced around his room, washed and rewashed his hair, and ripped through his entire wardrobe and declared the whole lot of it worthless. That he was still sane seemed to be a miracle in his eyes and if Christine didn't hurry up and appear, he was going to march up those stairs and drag her down.

The arrangements had already been made. The carriage was waiting outside and Raoul had dumped a sizable fortune in the driver's lap that guaranteed that the man would wait for him until the apocalypse if he had to. _God, Bless you, Monsieur!_ Yes, yes, just do your job. Raoul was pacing again, his pocket watch still in his hand. Tonight was going to be perfect, he told himself. Everything was going to go according to plan. Having spent years surrounded by the finery of the Opera House, Raoul knew that no ornate dining hall or anything like it would impress Christine, so he'd thought of something better. They were going to go out to the _Avenue des Champs-Élysées_, what the French referred to as "_la plus belle avenue du monde_" or "the most beautiful avenue in the world." It was also, at least to Raoul's knowledge, one of the most expensive places in the world too with its luxury specialty stores, cafes and hotels. His sisters practically lived there every time they traveled to Paris and even though Christine was nothing like them, he hoped it would impress her nonetheless. He planned to spend a shameless amount of money on whatever caught her eye. They would spend the hours together, talking, laughing, and just savoring each other's company. Then he was going to do the proper Christian thing, take her home, maybe give her a goodnight kiss. Of course, then he was going to go home and douse himself in cold water while the immoral side of his brain tortured him with thoughts of a more sinful nature, but he cross that bridge when he got to it.

And, naturally, he just had to be thinking that as Christine walked down the stairs.

Raoul tried to breath and found that he'd forgotten how. Christine was stunning, absolutely stunning. She'd chosen a crème colored evening dress that was accented with black ribbons and flowed loosely over her body. From his sisters, Raoul knew more than his fair share about modern fashion and he saw with a surge of delight that Christine was wonderfully out of style. Oh, how his sisters would have _hated_ that. They honored the belief that good looks were something that took hours to attain—struggling into corsets and dresses so tight it seemed as though they were sewn on. But Raoul hated all that. He'd never understood the modern demand that one should suffer for beauty.

"You look …" Raoul struggled for a word, the perfect word to describe the vision before him. Somehow 'beautiful' just didn't seem enough. "…divine," he breathed.

Christine blushed.

There was something about this whole situation that seemed too much like a story book, too good to be true. She half expected to wake up and find that the whole thing was just a dream, but as Raoul approached her and her heart began to race she realized that it was all real. Cliché, maybe, but real and hers.

"Are you ready?" he asked, and Christine noticed with a rush of joy that he looked almost as nervous as she was. Yes, this was definitely real. In stories, the handsome prince was always smooth and confident, but she'd pass them all by for her gentle and timid Raoul.

"Yes."

Nothing could have prepared her for Paris in its entire nighttime splendor. From the windows of the carriage, Christine stared with an unabashed wonder at the city she'd lived in for years yet knew nothing about. She fell in love with the elaborate cafes and restaurants that lined the road and bemoaned the fact that she'd chosen not to eat before she came down. Still, it seemed as though nothing could dampen her good mood. There were no ghost, no angels, no divas and no dolls—just her and Raoul together enjoying the glow and pulse of the city. There were artists painting along the streets, women and men walking in their evening gowns with their children beside them. Someday, Christine thought, that might be me and… Well she didn't want to get her hopes up that high. Reality settled its old weight on her shoulders and she reminded herself that one evening out did not necessarily constitute a marriage proposal and happily ever after. Still, Raoul had forgone all semblance of proper decorum when he'd promptly ignored the seat on the other side of the carriage and settled beside her. She could feel the heat of his thigh pressed beside hers and it felt so wonderful and right. Maybe her hopes weren't so unimaginable after all?

When they arrived at their apparent destination, Raoul had a brief word with the driver and then returned to help her out of the carriage. Even though she could have easily let herself out, she smiled and took his hand, allowing him to be a gentleman. Afterward, he held out his arm and she took it, blushing and hardly believing this was happening to her.

"Are you ready?" he asked, expectantly.

She nodded nervously, not trusting her voice. She prayed to any god that would hear her that this night would go well—that she wouldn't make a complete idiot of herself—that Raoul would find her charming—that she honestly had a chance with him.

Christine had thought she was ready, but that was before she stepped out and saw the _Avenue des Champs-Élysées_ in its glory_._ It was unworldly… and to think that she'd been living next to this for years! Well, her eyes were open now. She had to mentally remind herself to keep her jaw from falling open. This place made the rest of Paris look like a veritable slum.

"Well, what do you think, Christine?"

Christine was speechless. What did she think? Was that even a question?

This was another world for her—even words changed as soon as she stepped onto the street, for a café anywhere else was not the same thing as a café here. And suddenly she felt alien and very out of place amongst the upper echelons of society, who seemed to Christine to be living paintings out in all their finery and riches. Across from them, there was a woman wearing a diamond necklace complete with a centerpiece the size of an apple. Beside her was another woman who was wearing a dress similar to one Christine had worn when she'd played a princess. But the dress Christine wore was made to fool an audience and her necklace had been crystal, this was the real deal. Something was clawing inside her and Christine felt like climbing back into the carriage and rushing back to her beloved, familiar Opera House. This was too much—she didn't belong here. She clung to Raoul's arm, afraid to be swept away by it all. He must have taken it as an encouraging sign, because his face broke out into a glorious smile and he urged her on.

"Come, on, there's so much for you to see."

Christine felt like throwing up, but she didn't want to ruin this moment. Raoul had obviously put some thought into this evening and she wasn't about to throw it all in his face by acting like a scared child. Christine forced a smile and walked forward, her stomach coiling in apprehension while Raoul led the way. She had to soldier on and try to make the best of it all. Maybe she was just being silly, after all, she was with Raoul. What could possibly go wrong?

As they passed a nearby café, Christine sighed with want at all the enticing aromas that floated into the evening air. Upon seeing her expression, Raoul chuckled good naturedly.

"Want to go inside?" he asked.

Christine blinked. "But, won't they mind," she replied timidly. Women weren't usually allowed in cafés and the last thing Christine wanted to be reminded of was how much of an outcast she was.

"Oh, they'll make an exception for you, I guarantee." Raoul winked and urged her on. The man at the entrance hesitated for the briefest moment, but upon recognizing Raoul he smiled pleasantly and opened the door. There it is, Christine thought as she walked inside, there's the difference between me and Raoul. That would have never happened if she had been alone. She wasn't sure if it was a male thing or a class thing, but Christine knew it was something she'd never have.

"Are you feeling well, Christine?" She looked up to see Raoul looking down at her, a look of honest concern on his face. Oh, God, she was doing exactly what she'd promised herself she wouldn't do. She was making him uncomfortable. "No, I'm fine… I guess I'm just a bit hungry," she gave him a sheepish look.

"Well, why didn't you say so," Raoul smiled and held out his hand. A handsome boy appeared instantly, sliding a menu into Raoul's outstretched hand. Christine couldn't believe it. Raoul handed the menu to Christine. "Order whatever you'd like."

Christine couldn't imagine growing up with the idea that one could just reach out and get whatever they wanted without even having to ask for it. The alien feeling grew and gnawed at her stomach as she opened the menu and bit back a gasp at the prices. Good, Lord! Obviously, Christine was not a regular customer at cafés, but even she had a hard time justifying these prices. This was insane. Her eyes scanned the menu for the cheapest thing she could find. A coffee, black. But when she told Raoul, he frowned.

"You're not getting self-conscious about the cost, are you?" Christine didn't need to answer, he could read it all on her face. Raoul sighed. "I was afraid this would happen… Listen, Christine, don't worry about the cost—in fact, don't even look at it." He snatched the menu from her hands. "For tonight, just let me take care of everything." And taking a bold step, he leaned over and gave her forehead a chaste kiss.

"Waiter," he said, and just like before a boy instantly appeared as if he'd been waiting to be summoned. Raoul ordered for the both of them while Christine wished the floor would open up below her and swallow her whole. "And we'd like a private table as well." He finished and reached for her hand, leading them to a secluded area of the café. As soon as the waiter left, Raoul cleared his throat and gave Christine's hand a comforting squeeze. "Look up," he said.

Christine looked up and gasped. Inside the lamp was a large bulb—no flame—they were wired. The whole building was being lit by electricity.

"Oh, wow," she said, sounded every bit as behind the times as she dreaded. Still, she couldn't help it, this was really amazing.

"Yeah, but you've got to watch out with this witchcraft," Raoul teased, gesturing to the exposed wires that ran along the walls. "The technology hasn't been perfected yet and those wires have been known to spark and catch fire."

"Fire," she muttered, hardly knowing what she was saying as she continued to stare. Even her Opera House still operated with gas and it was considered to be very modern indeed. To think that so much happened outside those walls. Her thoughts were interrupted, however, when the waiter suddenly reappeared with their order. Christine had been too wrapped up in her own shame to pay attention to what Raoul had ordered for her, but he seemed to have chosen the most decadent thing he could find. It looked almost intimidating with its layers of fruit and whipped cream. And to top it off, a layer of icing with a chocolate drizzle.

"It's a _mille-feuille_," Raoul said, trying in vain to hide his smile at Christine's expression. "Try a bite… it's really good."

Oh, she didn't doubt that, but the idea of eating the whole thing after months of obtaining from sweets made her wince. Still, Raoul had picked it out just for her and thinking back to the menu, she knew it probably cost a small fortune. So, picking up her fork, she held back a grimace and took a bite. Sweet was too tame a word to describe this—this was almost an assault on her pallet. Yes, it was good but oh, it was really too rich for her. She was careful about keeping all of this internal while smiling and nodding for Raoul to see. The look of accomplishment on his face made the whole thing worth it, however. She was glad to give him a bit of reassurance. Thank God her coffee was simpler—a cup of plain coffee with steamed milk. She blew on it, more than ready to rinse the layer of icing off her tongue. When Raoul mentioned shopping, she stood up and held out her hand, ready to put this place far behind her.

Window shopping was much more enjoyable for her. It was fun to see all the specialty stores and venues that lined the avenue. The only bad part came when Raoul pressured her to buy something, but what was she supposed to do with a genuine ruby necklace—fold it up and hide it away with her linins? And what would she do with fur coat but watch it age in her closet, having no occasion to wear such a thing? She was just visited this world, but Raoul didn't understand that and wanted more than anything to treat Christine the way he felt she deserved to be treated: like royalty. She belonged here—with him. It didn't matter what his family or others thought—they'd only have to meet her once and he knew they'd understand. Christine was one of them.

"Raoul!"

Raoul turned just as the woman threw her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on each cheek. Christine raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything. What she didn't expect was for Raoul to lean in and return the gesture.

"_Buona sera_, Raoul," the woman, her voice smooth. Italian, Christine noticed, taking in the glossy brown hair, the sun-kissed skin, those thin hands that always seemed to drift back to Raoul's arm. She watched as the woman laughed at something Raoul said, her hair glowing amber under the soft lights that came from overhead. She didn't know that Raoul spoke Italian, but then again, Christine hadn't seen him years. She folded her arms, wishing that she could just fold herself up like a letter and wait for Raoul to unfold her again when she was wanted.

"It's so wonderful to see you again, Maria," Raoul said, smoothly switching back into French. "But where are my manners?" He reached out and put his arms around Christine's shoulders. "Let me introduce you to Christine Daee. She recently sang the lead in _Hannibal _at the _Opéra de Paris_, perhaps you've heard of her?

"No, I'm afraid I've only arrived in Paris just this evening," she said, her French slightly accented. "Of course, I had to come here, you know me Raoul."

Raoul's smile was quick—clever—and spoke volumes to Christine who felt like sinking into the ground. _You know me…_ Just how well did they know each other?

"Tell me, Raoul, is _this_ the reason you haven't returned to Florence?" She arched a thin eyebrow, her mouth curving into a playful smirk. Christine felt her ears grow hot, but Raoul didn't notice as he chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.'

"As I recall, you were the one who told me that my manner no longer pleased you and you couldn't bear the thought of me continuing to soil your home with my presence."

Christine blushed, feeling as though she were with Meg again, listening in on things she had no business hearing. But they carried on, completely unaware or uncaring of the world around them. The arrogance of the _bourgeoisie_, as her father would say.

"You should know me better than that, Raoul." She put her hand on his arm, her lacquered nails gleaming like dark gems. "I'm always so hasty." And Christine saw the famished look flame in her eyes. Hasty indeed.

* * *

One hour later and Christine knew more about this woman that she knew about her own mother. Apparently, she and Raoul had met nearly two years ago and it had been love at first sight—or at least that's what she thought until she grew tired of his childish nature.

"You know how much of a little boy he can be," she said, leaning over and touching Christine's arm with the intimacy of a long lost friend. Christine felt as though a band had just been clamped over her chest. She worked hard to keep her breathing even. The woman, or Maria, was not unkind to her—or at least, she was not intentionally unkind... And she seemed very determined to know as much about Christine's life as she willing told of her own. It was something Christine had seen before. For Maria, it was like playing dress up and tonight she wanted to see what a Christine would look like. The very idea that she was somehow violating her privacy seemed unthinkable.

She learned that Maria had been married three times to varying ranks of nobility. She had a son and two daughters, though motherhood had never possessed her like it did some women. She smiled as if she'd just told Christine a naughty secret and then asked her about her father.

"So, I gather the two of you were very close," she said.

"Yes, we were," Christine said, not wanting to share anything about her father with this woman. Somehow the very thought of it made her feel as though she would be cheapening her father's memory.

"It must have been so painful to lose someone so dear," Maria said, leaning close enough so that Christine could smell her musky perfume. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. "So unbearable to lose such a man… Men are important you know." She said, grasping Christine's pale hand with her tanned one. "Fathers, brothers, and lovers—they're all the same really. Women need a man." She gave Raoul a covert look as her lips curled up into a knowing smirk.

Christine smiled weakly.

* * *

Despite the late hour, Christine insisted on being returned to the Opera House and said so in a tone that left no room for Raoul to question her. During the carriage ride back to the Opera House, Christine didn't say much to Raoul, who chose this time to sit on the other side. She kept her legs crossed at the ankle and her hands folded daintily on her lap while she screamed and cursed inside her head.

"I have to apologize about Maria's odd behavior." Christine looked up to see Raoul smiling, shrugging his shoulder. "She's a foreigner." He said, as if that explained everything.

She nodded and went back to looking out the window. The silence that hung over them seemed palpable and Christine thought if reached out her hand she'd see it ripple in the air. Even Raoul, despite his apparent talent for seeming oblivious, couldn't shake off the feeling that something was wrong. But he'd tried so hard to make everything perfect tonight, and he'd apologized for Maria's odd mannerisms—surely Christine wasn't upset with him. Surely.

"Goodnight, Raoul." She said, opening the door and letting herself out before he even had a chance to move. He stared at her, wanting more than anything to grab her and pull her back. They could have tomorrow—they could try again—next time he would do better. So much better. "Thank you for a wonderful evening," she said, turning and leaving him there to stare at her as she walked back inside.

"Goodnight, Christine," he whispered, knowing that she didn't hear him.

She noticed his scent before she saw him, that familiar mix of smoke and something else she'd never been able to identify—something foreign and bitter as nightshade. Of course it wasn't a coincidence. Of course he knew everything that had happened. Of course. She glanced up, daring him to say something to her. Her eyes were gleaming with unshed tears and she knew he saw them. This was a moment of victory for him, was it not? So why didn't he say something to her, savor the moment? His eyes bruised her—she wanted them to cut, slice her open and bleed her… purify her. He held out his hand and she took it, feeling the clamp around her heart tighten as he pulled her into the shadows.

* * *

Author's Note:

The lines at the beginning of the chapter are from the poem "Antigonish".

(Anyone who wants to know the inspiration for Christine's dress should google "artistic dress countess" and click on the first site that comes up. While Christine has never really struck me as a true feminist, there's a bit of practicality about her that makes me think she would be a casual supporter of the Artistic Dress Movement that rejected the constrictive clothing styles that were very popular back then. No corsets. No tightlacing... just flowing fabric. Plus, I just can't imagine someone who takes singing as seriously as Christine lacing her ribcage down and restricting her breathing. I know Erik wouldn't stand for that nonsense either.)

Many thanks to everyone who's reviewed! I love hearing all of your opinions and insights. It's so wonderful to know that there are people who enjoy my writing. Please don't hesitate to leave any comments or suggests for this chapter. Thank you so much for reading!

R.C.


End file.
